


Kingly

by DonLambert



Series: Crimson [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Elvish Sex Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, Rimming, Sensitive Elf Ears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:55:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3213263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonLambert/pseuds/DonLambert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"For my men...I will have your hands. For the supplies, your lips will be my payment. For my compliments, you will stay the night. And for my healing..."</p><p>---</p><p>The Elvenking and the Dragonslayer find each other after the battle. Thranduil invites Bard to his halls where, this time, he can have things his way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. snow

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a sequel to "Dragonslayer," which I highly recommend reading first, though I'm sure you could get by without it. This one's a bit longer, a bit more plot, a few more feelings, but still mostly smut. Enjoy.

Thranduil walked slowly through the corpse-littered streets of Dale. Orcs, men, elves. He made his way around them, over them, looking for Bard. He had returned from Ravenhill where he had seen the fallen Sons of Durin and watched his own son leave him. He felt heavy with the deaths of his people, fatigued under all of the things left unsaid between he and Legolas. He could crumble under the weight of it had he let himself. He stepped over lifeless forms - once bright stars - still clad in their golden armor.

Blood stained the stones beneath his feet, its stench rising and lingering in the air as pools of it dried, crimson fading to brown. Weapons lay strewn. Cries of relief or of anguish rang through the air as loved ones found each other. The broken city had been torn to pieces even further, new heaps of rubble covering the old. New corpses covering blackened shells.

Two of Thranduil’s guards followed him as he passed through the market where the injured were being looked to - humans and elves and dwarves that had been brought from the battlefield. Any with skill were helping to bind wounds and stitch cuts. Bard was nowhere to be seen.

Thranduil continued on to the city’s square where bodies were being gathered and sorted like goods for sale. The men that were best able moved corpses. Armor was collected and rubble was cleared by those that were not as strong. Thranduil stood and stared at the efforts, searching, and slowly eyes were drawn to his silver figure.

One young girl looked to him, blinked, and then turned around to call out “Da! It’s the king of the elves!”

Thranduil followed the gaze of the girl and relief flooded over him as it led to Bard,guiding a cart in to place across the square. He was dirty and torn and bloodstained, hair in disarray, but as he heard his daughter’s voice and saw the Elvenking a grin broke over his face that Thranduil thought was the most beautiful thing in the world. 

Bard left a command with the other man he’d been talking to and crossed to Thranduil, calling to his children, who were scattered across the square, to join him. He came to stand in front of the Elvenking with his usual triangle in front of him - Bain at his right hand, Sigrid at his left hand, Tilda in the middle.

“My Lord Thranduil, these are my children, Sigrid, Bain and Tilda. Children, this is Lord Thranduil, the Elvenking.”

They all dipped their heads in deference, quite excited to be introduced to another elf, and when Tilda looked back up she had a big smile on her face.

“You have very pretty hair Lord Thranduil.”

Bard laughed and Thranduil gave a small smile to Tilda, inclining his head. “Thank you.”

Thranduil looked then to Bain, who was standing straight at Bard’s shoulder. “Your father tells me that you aided him in slaying the great dragon.”

Bain seemed surprised to be addressed, blinking a moment before managing “Oh, yes well, not really. I mean I did help Da, but he’s the one who actually killed it."

Thranduil nodded, taking the three of them in. They looked like Bard, they had his bright eyes. “You all must be very brave. Like your father.” 

They all blushed and nodded, and Bard squeezed the shoulders of Bain and Sigrid. “Even braver.” Then he looked down and nudged them gently, urging them off. “Go on now, go help, let us talk.”

They did so, giving little bows before hurrying away to what they had been doing. 

Bard took a step closer to Thranduil as soon as they had gone, worry suddenly creasing his brow. The elf cut an impressive figure with his face bloodstained and his armor rent, a cold and beautiful and deadly warrior, only he did not seem so cold as usual. Battle had chiseled away some of that icy composure.

“And where have you been?”

“I have only just returned from Ravenhill,” Thranduil replied gravely. “Have you heard of Thorin?” 

“Aye, I heard. Of course I heard. And his nephews too. Damn shame. After all he fought for...it still wasn’t to be.”

“Indeed. This is not the ending I would have wished for.”

Bard nodded solemnly. Their victory, though hard fought for, barely felt like one.

They stood in silence, looking out over the scene of the square. Snow fell gently around them, dusting the ground in its fine powder, capping their shoulders, blanketing the fallen.

The Bowman dreaded the first time he was caught alone with his thoughts. All that was keeping him afloat at the moment was staying busy. He was king of Dale indeed; the title seemed to come from everyone’s lips but his own. He wasn’t sure if he would ever get used to it. 

“It is not an easy sight,” Thranduil suddenly murmured, and Bard turned to look at the Elvenking.

“It’s all gonna hit me the second I try and lay down to sleep. I can’t let it now, but it will, I know.”

“You will find yourself plagued by many sleepless nights to come, Dragonslayer. It is no easy task, forgetting.” Thranduil stared at the corpses of elves, his people piled like so many logs for firewood, and a shadow came over his eyes.

A frown tugged at the corners of Bard’s mouth. “I thought you were used to war.”

“No. It is never easy to see your people die on your command, particularly for elves. Wars are very difficult for us and we enter them seldom. We are not well prepared for the face of death. It causes a great grief. ”

“I understand. I lost a lot of good men today - friends, neighbors - who never once thought they would die as soldiers or warriors. They thought they had whole lives ahead of them.”

“Still, those men may have had but 40 more years given to them if they were lucky. I led elves to war who need never have died at all.” 

“And? Does that make their lives more valuable?”

Thranduil gave Bard a measured look. In his eyes, this was not a question. “Yes.”

“I disagree,” Bard said with resolution, meeting Thranduil’s stare, holding it firmly for a moment before he turned away, deciding not to press the issue. He knew what battles he could win. 

He took a breath before he spoke again, voice measured. “Everything is fragile. Whether you’re a deer or a man or an elf, it doesn’t matter. Life is very, very fragile.”  

Bard looked to his children. Bain helped another man lift the corpse of an Orc, Little Tilda gathered discarded weapons, though she could carry but one or two at a time, and Sigrid dried the tears of a woman who had lived next door to them in Laketown.

“You did what was right,” Bard continued. “And your soldiers had a choice. They fought for you, but not because you forced them to. They knew the risk.” 

Thranduil considered Bard’s words for a long moment, watching his soldiers, his remaining soldiers, working with the men of the lake. “You give noble advice for a king of two days who has never before seen battle, Bowman.”

“It’s just what I’m trying to tell myself right now. You know it all better than I.”

They looked at each other suddenly and realized how the distance between them ached. The air shimmered and strained, and they hesitated. They stepped forward, but neither seemed sure of what to do.

“Bard,” Thranduil said softly, breaking their yearning silence. He had this chance, he decided, to tell Bard what he should have told his son. “You...do not know how relieved I am to find you unharmed.”

Bard raised an eyebrow, unaware of the statement’s gravity. “Do my ears deceive me? Was the Elvenking _worried_ about little old mortal me?”  

“Bard-” 

The delicate air broke and Bard grinned wider than he had right to. “Why, Lord Thranduil cares about the men of the lake after all!” 

“Bowman, if you do not kiss me this moment I swear I will have that infernal tongue of yours cut out,” Thranduil warned him, not altogether exaggerating, smiling against his will.

“Was that a threat I heard? I don’t think I take well to threats now that I’m a king-”

And he got no further. Thranduil grabbed Bard by his coat and pulled the man against him, bending his head and bringing their lips fiercely together. They sighed in to each other and everything was simple once more.

The touch of the Elvenking revitalized Bard like bending to drink from a clear sweet mountain stream. The aches of battle sloughed off and his tasks ahead did not seem so bleak. Thranduil’s hand found the back of his neck and his lips were warm and soft though his mouth tasted of blood. Thranduil’s armor prevented Bard from pressing too close and they simply held each other’s heads as they kissed in relief, deeply and purely.

“Da! Da! Are you _kissing an elf_?”

Tilda’s voice rang out across the market and Bard could hear her footsteps rushing over as fast as she could as he broke away from Thranduil. Of course such an action would not go unnoticed, indeed the whole square seemed to be staring with wonder, and he offered an apologetic smile to the Elvenking before looking down at the awestruck face of his littlest daughter. “Ah...yes, I am, Tilda.”

“Are you going to marry him?” She asked with wide eyes, taking Bard’s hand in both of hers. “Is he going to be our father as well?”

“No, sweetheart, I don’t think so.”

And then the explanation sprung to her eyes. “Is it because you’re king now? Do you have to kiss all the other kings?”

“No Til, I don’t. But I do have to kiss all of my lovely princesses!” He scooped her up in his arms - she was the only one of his children still young enough for him to do so - and gave her the biggest kiss on her cheek that he could manage, making her giggle and squirm. “And do I get one back?”

She nodded and pressed a kiss to his cheek with big “Mwah!”

“Good girl,” he said warmly, lowering her back to the ground. “Now run along, you have work to do and I have things to discuss.”  
  
“You just wanna kiss him again!”  
  
“Tilda. We can talk about all of this later.”

She sighed the sigh of a martyr. “O- _kay_ Da. Goodbye Lord Thranduil.”

Without awaiting answer she bounced over to Sigrid, who had a big, knowing grin on her face.

Thranduil had watched this with a conflicted heart. He was enamored to see Bard as a father, how tender he was with his daughter, the joy they took in each other, but he could not help jealousy seeping in. He had had that, once. He remembered suddenly all of the bright little laughs and curious hands, the crowns woven of flowers and grass and the tiny forehead kisses. That was thousands of years ago. It felt like more. It made him ache somewhere deep and hidden.

He buried deep that ache as Bard turned to him and apologized for the interruption.“There is no need for an apology. She is precious.”

“She is. I’m very lucky.”

They glanced around them and found conversation rushing through the square like a spreading wildfire, rising from a murmur to a buzz, everyone talking and pointing and staring. No one actually approached them, however, which Bard suspected had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the way Thranduil was squinting.

Bard shook his head, crossing his arms. “Well, seems like everybody saw that. Whole city will know by the end of the day.” 

“I apologize if I acted irrationally -”

“No, no, it’s alright, let them talk,” Bard replied with a grin. “They’ve been through a battle. Trust me, the men of the lake don’t care what they’re gossiping about so long as they’re gossiping about something. And what a tale it is! The two lover-kings.”

Thranduil blinked. Lover? Did human attachment grow so rapidly? There was little that could frighten the Elvenking, but at that word he began to think that perhaps he no longer knew what path he walked.

Thranduil straightened up internally and hid the strange turmoil that had taken root. “You should tread carefully, Bowman,” he replied with a soft but great seriousness. 

Bard’s eyebrows creased, confused by Thranduil’s sudden concern, but the Elvenking’s expression was impervious once again.

“Bard,” he said suddenly, before the other king could ask any questions. “I am afraid that I must return to my kingdom as soon as possible.” 

It was Bard’s turn to blink. “You’re leaving? Already?”

“Yes. There is much there that I must see to that I cannot from Dale. I will remain for Thorin Oakenshield’s funeral tomorrow after which my people and I will depart. I will leave a small company here to assist you.” 

“Oh. Ah, thank you. I just thought you might want to...celebrate our victory.”

An imperceptible raise of the Elvenking’s eyebrows. “I doubt there will be time for anything of the sort in the following days, but I will call you to my halls as soon as I may. I believe a council will be needed; two kingdoms must rise from the ash - it will be no small effort.” 

Bard nodded, “Right,” but Thranduil could tell he was distracted and not swayed.

“Bard. Both of our attentions are needed elsewhere.” He crossed to his Dragonslayer again, putting a hand behind Bard’s neck. “Go be a king to your people. You may be one to me later.”

A sigh of heroic resignation. “Okay, okay.”

This time it was Bard who kissed Thranduil, pulling him down, pressing their lips together quickly and firmly before stepping back. “I’ll await that council.”

And then Bard turned around and walked away from him, which seemed quite the theme of the day.

 


	2. satin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the fun chapter :)
> 
> I am very sorry if there are any inaccuracies in the elvish - I’m far from knowledgeable, I'm going off of various websites, but I think it'll serve it's purpose.

 

Two days later word came via elven-messenger from Thranduil that a council of Mirkwood, Dale, and Erebor would take place in his halls tomorrow, mid-day.

Bard was relieved, they desperately needed it. There was still much confusion. The cleaning of Dale after the battle was close to complete, but the destruction of the dragon all those years ago now needed to be cleared and rebuilding would soon have to begin. In the mean time the lake men had a difficult time finding shelter in the charred city and their resources were dwindling distressfully.

He got many a look from his people as he oversaw efforts. Even more so than it had been in Laketown his business was everyone’s business now, seeing as he was the king, but as it was pleasant business, he found he didn’t mind.

“The Elvenking is my friend,” he would tell all of the raised eyebrows and suggestive glances, “It is no secret affair, we were relieved to find each other after the battle.” And he would leave it firmly at that. He would be glad to be rid of it for a day, though worried about what new rumors a trip to Mirkwood would produce.

Bard also regretted leaving his children alone for even a short while. He knew that they were still shaken and frightened. Sigrid had been waking from nightmares, Bard knew, but only because he had been waking from them himself as well. Of course brave as they were they insisted that they would be just fine and that Bard could go see the Elvenking for as long as he needed. Tilda insisted, however, that if they did decide to get married they must not do it in secret, and that she must be the flower girl at all costs.

Bard charged Bain with keeping his sisters safe and both older children with looking after Tilda, which they were all very used to. He had been away over nights many a time in their old life (that was what it was, very old and very distant) and he did not doubt that they would be fine this time as well.

The time came and he said goodbye to them, kissing each forehead in turn, leaving orders with Percy, who had stepped up as second in command beside him, before climbing on his horse and setting off.

The road to Mirkwood was a half day’s ride from Dale on horseback, considerably longer than, say, a ride downstream in a barrel, but it was clear and heavily watched and guarded, and Bard took it now with relative confidence. He set out early in the morning, and halfway through his journey he happened to meet his fellow council member on the road.

Bard was just entering the forrest when he saw a familiar figure on a pony a few leagues ahead of him. 

“Balin!” 

The white-bearded dwarf stopped his pony, turning to Bard and meeting him with a smile, bowing as well as he could without dismounting. “Master Bard! Or shall I say _King_ Bard? You are a welcome sight, Dragonslayer.”

Bard nodded in reply, bringing his horse to a halt in front of Balin. He was more glad to see the dwarf now than he ever had been before, trial to him that Thorin’s company had been, though he was slightly surprised. “Is Dain not coming?”

“No, he is not.”

“Did the Elvenking not invite him?” 

“Lord Thranduil requested a sensible ambassador,” Balin explained with a smile, and Bard nodded in understanding. “I lived in Erebor before the dragon, and I thought I could probably hold negotiations with the elves without weapons being pointed by either side.”

“I think you’re correct in that. You were reasonable to me when first we met, even if you were all lying through your teeth.” They spurred their horses on and rode the rest of the way together. “And Dain did call Thranduil a pretty woodland fairy when last they met.”

 

~

 

Thranduil greeted the two travelers on his throne, looking down on them with motionless benevolence.

He wore charcoal and black silks and a crown of silvered, frosty branches, for winter was encroaching on the forrest, blowing in from the north like a fog, though it had already taken seat in the hearts of his kingdom as they mourned for fallen warriors.

He bid his guests approach and the dwarf bowed first. “Balin, son of Fundin, at your service. The King Under the Mountain sends his regards - I speak on his behalf.” 

Thranduil did not hide his relief. “Thank goodness for that.”

“Aye. It’s nice to be here as a guest and not a prisoner, I must say. There was a time, long ago, before the Arkenstone was found and this great mess began, that your people and mine were friendly. I hope that going forward now, even if we do not consider each other friends, the elves of Mirkwood and the dwarves of Erebor may again have an amiable relationship.”

Thranduil cocked his head to the side, eyes narrowing. He was not happy that there was a King under the Mountain, whether it be Dain Ironfoot or Thorin Oakenshield, whether the dwarves wished to be ally or enemy, but what was done was done. He knew when to play nice. The dwarves and the lake men needed him, and the shifting of this chess board was the opportune time to collect future favors.

Thranduil let the edges of his lips curl delicately upward. “I wish no unnecessary animosity between us. The landscape is changing. I believe agreement may be beneficial for the both of us. You are welcome here, Master Dwarf.”

Balin nodded. Now it was Bard’s turn to step forward and incline his head. “My Lord Thranduil.”

Inside the case of his skin Thranduil felt like he had turned to smoke. 

Already his Bowman had changed. Already he was older. Thranduil could see by the differences in his skin and voice the wear of their two days apart. He carried himself with a new authority, and though his shoulders seemed strained his head was held high. In only a few days he had stepped in to the boots of a leader, and tightened their straps. Surely they had been difficult to break in, yet they suited him well. 

How inconstant were humans. 

“Dragonslayer,” Thranduil replied delicately.

Their eyes met. Thranduil assured him he had only to wait.

 

~

 

“Lord, I thought that dwarf would never leave,” Bard exclaimed the minute Balin had said his farewells and was out of the room on his way back to Erebor.

They had relocated to a small but regal hall and sat around a circular table, talking and discussing and deciding for hours, and for at least half of those hours Bard had been staring at the bit of neck that Thranduil’s collar revealed.

Now he stood eagerly and crossed to Thranduil’s chair, leaning down and fully intending to taste that pale bit of skin, but Thranduil stopped him with an unexpected hand against his chest. “Not so hasty, Dragonslayer.” He stood, backing Bard up a few steps, and Bard gave him a frustrated glare.

 “You’re going to make me wait?”

“I have matters to attend to. You want our agreements carried out, do you not?”

Thranduil had seemed indifferent to most of what Bard and Balin had decided, however Bard had noticed that the Elvenking would grant his requests if he made his need seem great enough. Thranduil would not take Laketown refugees in his halls, as the dwarves had at last agreed to, but as the city began to rebuild he had agreed to aid those staying in Dale by contributing supplies and provisions and providing a small company of elves to assist in the efforts. He had even made a gift of five horses.

“Of course I do.”

“Then you will wait.” It was not a choice. Thranduil turned from Bard, gathering papers from the table, crossing and giving a series of orders to one of the elves that had stood stoically by the door through their conversations. Then he turned over his shoulder, “I won’t be long, you may stay in my chambers.”

Bard let out a dramatic sigh. “If I must. I will miss you.” 

“Don’t you dare begin without me,” Thranduil added with a final, promising smirk, turning away once again and sweeping out of the room, leaving his men with a command in elvish.

Bard was then led out of the hall by a dark haired elf and taken down the curling pathways of the Elvenking’s halls. He didn’t feel as though he were indoors and underground, he thought as he walked, but in an old and enchanted forrest hewn of stone in ages that had passed out of memory.  


He heard singing floating up from caverns below and down from twisting levels above, unseen voices crying softly, high and clear and haunting - songs of mourning, he realized. He could not understand the words yet he seemed to feel the meaning in his bones, and he thought of his own people who had fallen in battle, his friends. Though no tears came, it was the most realized his grief had been. It was cleansing.

Bard lost track of the path his was taking, feet following along without his thought. The music faded gradually and Bard soon found himself in front of an ornate door, two armed guards standing on either side. With a command in elvish from his escort they opened it to him, and Bard gave his guide a last glance and a thank you before stepping hesitantly inside. The door closed immediately behind him and at last he could hear no more of the song as he gazed around what were the Elvenking’s chambers.

He was in a central room; an expansive, circular chamber. It had many glowing lamps that hung from the high ceiling and was filled with chairs and plush cushions and couches and spindly little end tables, seemingly meant for company. There was wine and water set out and a fire at the far end of the room to keep the chill at bay, crackling and snapping lightly. 

Vines were carved in to every surface possible, twining inside the stone of the walls, over the oak of chair arms, and where vines were not, there were antlers. The bases of tables, book ends, brooches. And if things were not made of natural materials, stone and wood, they were polished glass or glinting silver.

Had he been king of Dale for years and born in to his title he would not feel he needed nor deserved such extravagance. But it seemed not enough for Thranduil. He needed and deserved more than the world could provide him.

To the right through a great archway was another large chamber which on one end was filled with books, books stacked on shelves that made up the walls or piled high on tables and spilling on to the floor. The other end seemed to be a sort of walk in wardrobe. Apparently drawers simply wouldn’t do, and the Elvenking’s numerous, lavish outfits were displayed on mannequins. On interspersed tables were laid jewelry and crowns crafted from precious stones and shining metal and many things as well that seemed living and growing - brooches of leaves and berries, headdresses made of branches and vines. 

To the left of the central chamber, through another archway, was the bedroom. A lush bed dominated the center, all draped in burgundy and white-gold, a huge set of antlers at its head echoing the Elvenking’s throne. Bard smiled. The room’s main feature was the back wall, which was in fact an open balcony, supported by vine-wrapped pillars, that looked over the forrest and out on to a wide expanse of darkened tree tops. The world was blanketed by dusk and stars were appearing in the sky - far in the distance Bard could see their light shimmering like diamonds on the glassy splotch that was his lake. 

He stood on the balcony for a long time thinking of his old home before finally turning away. He knew if he so much as sat on the bed sleep would claim him in an instant,so he wandered instead, observed. He went over to the little table on which he had noticed pitchers and goblets and poured himself a glass of the wine that the elves seemed so fond of.

He wondered, as he sipped at his wine and ran his fingers over things he shouldn’t, what the two of them were doing. He supposed neither of them knew, unless Thranduil had a grand plan, but something about the elf’s behavior made him think that was not so. A seed had been planted on their night together, now they were to step back and see how it grew. Rose or vine or oak tree. 

The possibilities flitted through his mind, and a small worry hooked at the pit of his guts and whispered that this may not grow to anything. Quickly Thranduil would tire of him and toss him aside, and his voice would be cool and detached as he said their severing words. 

And yet again something made him think that was not so.

He put the thought out of his head as he came across a long mirror on the Elvenking’s wall and halted before it - he hadn’t seen his reflection in over a week save for a quick flash reflected in a steel blade or shined buckler. He stared for a moment, caught off guard. 

He peeled off his shirt in curiosity - bruises bloomed over his skin, most having faded and yellowed already, but the largest, a big splotch on his chest and right shoulder, was still an angry purple and throbbed with the movement of his shoulder. He had been lucky, his mail had saved him from getting badly cut; he only had one wound on his side which had been stitched up by Sigrid. It seemed to be healing fine. He had been too busy as of late to give his body very much thought. 

He stretched, let his eyes close. Behind the dark of his lids he saw flames, heard screams and the low, rumbling voice. He opened his eyes and took a long breath. The images had not faded yet, but perhaps eventually he would be able to reclaim that sacred space. He took another draw of wine for now, sitting on the nearest table that seemed sturdy enough to take his weight.

And he waited.

He thought. He drank the wine. He looked at that bed and fantasized. And he waited. 

That was how the Elvenking found the Bowman when he returned at last from his tasks - shirtless and swinging his legs.

The doors closed behind Thranduil and the corners of his mouth curled up in a smile. “A welcome sight indeed,” he proclaimed, standing in the door way for a moment and drinking in the sight of his beautiful, battered Dragonslayer. All for him. And then he crossed right by him and over to a small table on the other side of the room, his back to Bard as he took off his rings one by one.

“Everything is set in motion now,” He announced, removing his crown of frozen branches, setting it down with care. “Additional supplies will come to Dale at noon tomorrow.” 

There was a small pause. He heard Bard set down the goblet of wine and slide off of the table.

“Would you be so generous towards the men of the lake if I was not one of them?”

Thranduil turned to Bard, eyebrow cocked at the unnecessary question. “Of course I would not.”

Not a surprising answer. Bard wanted so badly to argue, he was sure they would in the future. Now he simply chuckled and shook his head. “You have a real cold heart, don’t you.”

“Oh come, I’ve been more than generous. You should thank me.”

“Should I?” Bard questioned with a grin, crossing to Thranduil, pressing against him. “Should I thank you?” He ran his hands up the elf’s chest, rested them at the base of his neck, reminded him that he had been left an hour alone. “Alright then, Elvenking.”

And they kissed at last as they could not in Dale, wanting and passionate, mouths heavy against each other, igniting long-sleeping embers. They had known each other, and waited for each other, and they both felt in the touch of their lips all of the hours that they had been apart. Apology and acceptance.

They broke apart and Thranduil’s face was softer, finger tips ghosting over Bard’s warm skin as he took in the Bowman’s many bruises in their various stages of fading.

“My poor Dragonslayer,” he cooed. 

There was not much he could do, but perhaps he could help. He lay his palm flat on the large dusky bruise on Bard’s chest, it covered it almost perfectly, some purple peeking out from under his fingers like smoke. He left it there for a long moment, his other hand reaching up to take Bard’s hair down, coming through the wild strands with his fingers. 

“ _Lle naa vanima_ ,” Thranduil murmured, and Bard’s brow creased. 

It was the first time Thranduil had spoken to him in elvish. It sounded like music. Like the forrest murmuring. “What does that mean?”

Thranduil stroked the side of Bard’s face with his thumb, and Bard thought he felt warmth from the hand still resting on his chest. “That you are beautiful.” 

“Me?” Bard wondered with a chuckle.

“Of course." There was a gentleness in the Elvenking’s eyes and voice that Bard had not known before. "I would look on you before any other, before any jewel or sunrise.” 

The words were simple and bare yet Bard could hardly believe them. His lips parted, but he was unable to reply.

Thranduil smiled and carefully removed his palm. Bard looked down to find that his bruise had faded, a dull dark yellow now, and when he rolled his shoulder its ache had disappeared.

“That’s a nice trick,” Bard managed, blinking.

“I’m afraid that is all I can do at the moment.” 

“It’s plenty,” he assured him, and the Bowman broke out in a grin. “Another thing that requires my thanks.”

“Mm, you have quite a debt to repay,” Thranduil purred, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind Bard’s ear, and the rumble of the Elvenking’s voice sent a rush of fire between them once more. 

“How may a simple man of the lake show his gratitude?” Bard questioned in reply, very slowly and very deliberately pushing the robe off of Thranduil’s shoulders.

“How indeed.” 

A moment of silence with Bard softly touching Thranduil’s neck, one of his favorite parts of the elf, as the Elvenking loomed over him. Their foreheads were close and Thranduil’s lips were curled deviously as he thought of his price.

“For my men...I will have your hands.”

His voice was like liquor, like rich honeyed whiskey, as he took Bard’s hand from where it had been playing at his collar and brought it instead to his mouth, kissing the scarred knuckles.

“For the supplies, your lips will be my payment.”

The Elvenking released Bard’s hand and took the sides of his face, leaning in, and the touch of his lips was faint enough to barley deserve to be called a touch at all - the lightest brush of petal soft skin and warm air.

“For my compliments, you will stay the night,” Thranduil murmured in to the dark space between Bard’s flushed lips, and then he backed them up swiftly and suddenly in to the wall, holding Bard against the stone with a hand on his neck. It was tight enough to start Bard’s heart racing but not to frighten him, though he was reminded just how much stronger Thranduil was than him. 

“And for my healing...I will have your pretty cock.”

Thranduil’s other hand slipped beneath Bard’s waistband and Bard let out a gasp, hips jerking as Thranduil’s fingers brushed his cock. The hand around his throat tightened the slightest bit and Thranduil kissed him again, their mouths working roughly against each other, teeth clashing.

They knew this kiss for what it was - the inciting incident. Bard moaned under the touch of the Elvenking, quickly growing hard, desperately trying to deepen the kiss, gain some sort of control, but Thranduil held him fast.Soon enough he could take it no longer andhe reached up and took a fistful of Thranduil’s hair, pulling his head back unceremoniously, drawing a hiss of surprise from the Elvenking. It made Thranduil drop the hand that had clutched his throat, resting it instead on his chest. 

The length of his ivory neck was now exposed to Bard’s will and he sucked at the sensitive skin, not sparing his teeth as he made his way to the top of Thranduil’s neck with wet, open mouthed kisses. There he stopped to bite at the elf’s delicate jaw, running his tongue over the little red marks he left, gasping softly in to Thranduil’s skin as his cock continued to be stroked and teased.

At last he turned his attention to Thranduil’s ear, keeping the other king’s head firmly in place with the hair pulled tight in his fist. First he sucked on the lobe, then ran the tip of his tongue up the edge, giving a flick at its pointed tip that made Thranduil shiver and moan against him, eyelids fluttering shut. “Oh, Bard.” His other hand forgot it’s duty entirely, clutching instead at Bard’s waist.

Bard grinned. He seemed to have found a particularly sensitive spot. He wondered that he hadn’t thought of it before. Slowly he took the tip between his lips and began to suck. Thranduil let out another breathy moan, going pliant in Bard’s arms. Now he ran his teeth gently over the edge of his ear, the back, coming to the tip and daring to nibble. He felt Thranduil’s cock twitch against his hip, and as he moved to the other ear, sucking and biting, Thranduil began rocking his hips in to Bard’s. Bard gripped the elf’s ass and pulled him closer in encouragement, meeting the movement.

It was not long before they were rutting desperately against the wall, elven ears and power plays forgotten in the friction as they panted in to each others mouths, lost in finally being together. 

At last, with effort, Bard stopped them, straightening but not parting from Thranduil, heart loud and brain spinning. He grinned up at the Elvenking. “Alright, I didn’t ride out here and sit through that council to come in the only pair of pants that I own right now. I think we should make use of that bed of yours.”

“Wise words from King Bard,” Thranduil smirked, not loosing a step as he reached down and hooked his fingers under the waistband of Bard’s trousers, guiding him across the room and in to the bedchambers. 

There was no ceremony involved this time as they both worked to tear apart each others clothes, Bard’s coming off decidedly easier than Thranduil’s, punctuating the fumbling and tossing with kisses until they were both standing bare at the foot of the bed.

For a second they stared, taking each other in, and then Bard was struck by a sudden desire. “On the bed,” he growled. “Hands and knees.”

Bard didn’t wait for Thranduil to reply, and knowing that the elf didn’t mind a bit of rough handling he turned him and guided him up on to the bed, pushing Thranduil forward onto his hands and knees and coming to kneel behind him. 

Thranduil had barely raised an eyebrow when the lake man roughly took hold of his hips, pulling them back and parting the cheeks of his ass with his thumbs to expose the elf to his will.

“And what exactly are y-” And then Bard bent his head and ran the flat of his tongue over Thranduil’s entrance. “ _Oh_.”

“Simply showing my gratitude,” he murmured against Thranduil’s skin. “My Lord.” 

He licked over Thranduil’s hole again and the elf quivered. “ _Bard_.”

He traveled further down to suck at his balls for a long moment, one and then the other, before returning to run his tongue around the tight circle of muscle, drawing light little moans from the Elvenking the whole time. Every sound, every scent and taste sent a pang of arousal through Bard. He wanted every bit of Thranduil so incredibly badly.

For a while he worked over him with his tongue, getting him wet and slick before at last, after what seemed a blissful eternity to Thranduil, pointing his tongue and pressing in to his entrance. Thranduil let out a low moan, making an effort to relax and let Bard further inside him, and the vibrations from Bard’s own noises of satisfaction made Thranduil shiver.

“You taste so delicious,” Bard murmured, withdrawing his tongue. 

Thranduil whined at the loss. “Bard...”

“Feel good?”

“Now is not the time for rhetorical questions, Dragonslayer,” Thranduil snapped.

Bard grinned, returning to his task and making a point of rubbing his facial hair against the sensitive skin, beginning to alternate between working his tongue in and out of the Elvenking, deep as he could, and licking around the rim of his entrance. 

Thranduil had gone from his hands to his arms crossed and his face buried in the silk of the pillows, letting out a stream of desperate whimpers as Bard fucked him with his tongue, squirming, grinding desperately back on to the man’s mouth. Bard knew that he could bring Thranduil off like this if he possessed the patience.

Thranduil seemed to be well aware of the fact as well, and abruptly he rose to his palms again. “That’s enough.” Bard’s removed his mouth and immediately Thranduil turned around, kneeling and pulling the man against him, still breathing heavily.

“That tongue of yours is quite suited for activities other than our chiding, isn’t it?”

“I’m good for a little bit more than just killing serpents,” Bard grinned, and Thranduil took his face in his hands, a hungry look in those silver eyes.  

“Kiss me.” 

There was a messy clash of teeth, hands gripping tightly in hair, and Thranduil delved deep in to his mouth and tasted himself on Bard’s lips and tongue. “I need your cock, Dragonslayer, I want you so badly,” Thranduil growled in to him when the need for air broke them apart at last. “May I tie you down?”

Bard blinked, pulling away slightly. “What?” 

“Let me tie you down. You had it your way last time, Bowman, let me have mine.” 

“Tie me -?”

And suddenly Thranduil was gone, ducking over to a set of drawers next to the bed, leaving Bard kneeling on the bed feeling slightly confused. The elf reemerged with a smirk and two strips of crimson satin. 

“Only your wrists. Only if you’d like. You will quickly come to see that few people dare control a King, or deny him. It can be cathartic to put yourself in the hands of another.” 

Now Bard understood. His blood raced. “Yes. Yes you can. Anything you want.”

“Mm, you are too good to me,” Thranduil murmured, sounding pleased, as he sat down on the edge of the bed and bid Bard lie back on the cushions he stacked against the headboard.

Bard complied, settling back and watching as Thranduil took one of his hands, handling it almost delicately, pressing kisses to the inside of Bard’s arm before he tied it to one of the carven vines of his bed-posts. He made sure that the position was comfortable before he crossed around the bed and did the same thing to Bard’s left wrist.

Bard tried to appreciate the elf’s pale figure glowing in the firelight and the featherlight touch of his lips to the sensitive skin of his wrists, but it was difficult when the Bowman’s heart was drumming so loudly in his chest. 

He had never done anything like this before. While he had been with plenty of people back in his younger days before he was married, both men and women, none of those encounters had involved being tied up. And he’d liked to think he’d been around the block, but apparently not compared to elven tastes.

“Relax, Bowman,” Thranduil soothed as he completed his second wrist, seeming to sense his lingering tension, standing and making his way back around the bed to the drawers. 

Bard gave an experimental pull - the bonds were secure, though not painful. He was trapped, and it was...exciting. It surprised him how exciting it was.

He did think, briefly, that Thranduil had experience with this. He wondered who else the Elvenking had tied up in his 7000 years. Or, perhaps, who had tied up the Elvenking. _That_ was exciting as well.  

Thranduil appeared at the foot of the bed, a familiar glass vial in his hand. Bard’s legs were bent and he climbed in between them, kneeling there, and he looked fondly down at his Bowman tied up naked in front of him, eyes wide and waiting, red stripes across his wrists. “If you want to be untied simply say so and I shall do it.”

“I don’t think that’s going to be necessary,” Bard assured him, used to the bonds, eager now. “But I do have one request.”

“Anything,” Thranduil replied, running hands languidly over Bard’s thighs.

“Talk to me.”

“If you would like -”

“In elvish.”

Thranduil tipped his head to the side and raised his eyebrows a fraction. A bold request, though his request of Bard had been bolder. “ _Ben iest gîn_ ”he said at last, with a small smile of agreement. “As you wish.”

He opened the vial and poured a small bit on his palm before setting it aside, wrapping slick fingers around Bard’s cock, drawing out a low groan from the man, watching his head fall back against the pillows.

He did not linger, and Bard’s eyes cracked open again as Thranduil straddled his hips, perching there and running a hand over Bard’s bruised chest, coursing through the dark hair, gently tracing scars and the cut that would soon become one. His tough, fragile human. A work of art. He wanted it forever under his finger tips.

He looked up and met Bard’s dark eyes. “You are so lovely,” he murmured, his voice velvet. “ _Thiog vê_.” And as the Bowman watched him Thranduil took his hands from his chest and ran them teasingly over his own skin, imagining it was Bard’s rough fingers that caressed his neck, rubbed over his nipples.  

Bard’s mouth watered. He bit his lip. “Do you miss my hand?”

“ _Caro_ ,” And he ran his own hand up his thigh and over his ass like he could still feel the sting of Bard’s palm. “Oh yes.”

Bard let out a weak moan, straining uselessly at his bonds. “You are _wicked_.”   

His hips twitched and Thranduil was reminded of Bard’s cock under him, hot and slick, ready, and mercifully he stopped his teasing, shifting, mounting Bard properly and guiding his cock to his entrance, beginning to sink down with a great deal of control. “ _Ai Bard, antho den enni_ ” he breathed, sheathing Bard’s sword up to the hilt. 

Bard groaned as he was enveloped in the heat and pressure of the Elvenking. He looked up at the beautiful figure settled on top of him, luminous in the moonlight with his hair splayed over his shoulders. His chest, smooth and pale and bare, seemed to beg for Bard’s fingertips, his cock rested flushed against his chest and Bard could nearly feel it on his tongue.

Bard longed to reach out and touch him. 

Thranduil, gazing back down at him with dark eyes and rose cheeks, smiled and made a satisfied little noise. “You make a lovely throne.”

It was an occupation Bard could easily become accustomed to. “And you look kingly upon me.”

“ _Caro_ ,” he murmured in agreement, rolling his hips forward experimentally, making the Bowman gasp. He continued the movements, slowly increasing his speed, biting his lip at the sensation.

“You’re so beautiful,” Bard managed through a groan. “You like that?”

Thranduil only nodded, his head falling back as he ground harder down on to Bard. He did, he liked every inch of Bard’s cock filling him, and it was only made better by how much Bard seemed to enjoy being tied up underneath him, able to be used however best suited his desire.

The chamber soon filled up with the Elvenking’s moans - he did not conceal them now, if only for Bard’s sake. They echoed, night-song carried out and over the balcony in to the dark forrest. Like the king’s pleasure belonged there with the moon and foxes and rustling branches. Bard loved to know that he was the cause of it. 

Bard couldn’t properly thrust his hips up but he could do his best, and he let them buck up in to Thranduil as much as they were able, eyes still trained on the beautiful elf on top of him. “Fuck Thranduil, you feel so good.”

Thranduil let out a gasp as, with the two of them moving together, Bard’s cock began to brush that particular spot inside him. He leaned forward and placed his hands on Bard’s chest for support, being careful of his bruises as he worked himself up and down on Bard’s cock with vigor now, increasing his speed, a stream of elvish falling unheeded from his lips. “ _A, caro, ai den ídhron, den ídhron gin iallon!_ ”

Bard knew not it’s meaning but it filled up his head until the only things in his world were the liquid silver of Thranduil’s voice and his slick heat around Bard’s cock. He found a strange freedom in his bonds; there was nothing else he need think of, he could let everything else fade and feel only the silk against his skin.

They couldn’t keep it up for particularly long, both having been hard for a good while now, Thranduil having come close under the artistry of Bard’s tongue, and they soon felt the heat gathering in their lower bellies and could sense the desperation in the other. 

Thranduil placed his hands on either side of Bard’s head to shift the position of his hips and increase their speed, focusing now on his Bowman, working to give him his climax - he knew his own would follow. His hair fell in an ivory curtain around their faces, their eyes trained on each other’s. Bard was past words, whimpering and moaning, mouth wide open, his arms straining at the bonds in attempt to deal with the rising tension. “Oh I’m so close,” he managed, “Shit, oh I’m gonna come, _Thranduil -_ ” 

Thranduil tightened around him and felt Bard’s release at once, the man’s hips bucking erratically. “ _Caro, caro pathro nin,”_ he moaned as Bard spilled himself in him, “ _avo dharo,_ ” and Bard cried Thranduil’s name out over his elvish.

It may have been the best thing Thranduil had ever felt, Bard’s come inside him, leaking out around Bard’s cock as he continued to work himself desperately, and with only a few more brushes to that certain spot and the way Bard had moaned his name still in his ears Thranduil was spilling himself too, his seed splashing over the Bowman’s stomach, head thrown back, Bard’s name on his lips.

Eventually both of their hips stilled, the thundering in their heads subsiding. For a long moment they simply stay there, panting, coming down together, hazy smiles on their faces, blood still humming and crackling.

Finally Thranduil unmounted his Dragonslayer, letting Bard’s cock slip out of him with a little groan. He reached over Bard’s head and swiftly untied Bard’s wrists, letting the crimson strips fall as they would, sitting back and watching as Bard stretched his arms and rolled his wrists. “Are you alright?” 

The Bowman broke in to a grin. “Never been better.” 

“You were a work of art tied up like that,” Thranduil told him, curling himself around Bard’s side, propping himself up on an elbow. “Perhaps sometime you would be good enough to return the favor.” 

“Oh, with enthusiasm.”

Thranduil smiled and ran a palm over the sweat-slick surface of the Bowman’s chest, his shoulders and his neck, moving down and wiping the come off of Bard’s stomach with delicate fingertips. He brought them to his lips and held Bard’s gaze as one by one he licked them clean.

He saved his index finger, however, and charitably he offered it to Bard, letting the man take it in his mouth and suck gently.

Thranduil removed his finger when it was thoroughly cleaned and Bard put a hand on the back of Thranduil’s neck, pulling him down. “Kiss me, will you?” 

Thranduil did so, and they kissed softly and for as long as they liked, warm and comfortable against each other, Bard running his hands all over the skin that he had been denied, Thranduil trying to memorize the feeling of Bard’s calloused, worshipful palms so that he may have it forever. 

Eventually they broke apart and settled in to each other, having shifted so that now Bard was the one who curled in to Thranduil. “So, have I proven my gratitude to your satisfaction, my Lord?” The Bowman asked sleepily, resting his head on Thranduil’s chest, draping an arm over his waist. 

Thranduil smiled, lacing his fingers in to Bard’s hand. “You are a friend of the elves indeed, King Bard.”

“I’ll settle for just one of them,” Bard replied, letting his eyes close. He was drifting off when he murmured, “Thranduil?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“ _I 'ell nîn_ ,” Thranduil replied softly. “You are welcome.” He squeezed Bard’s hand, pressed his lips to his hair. “Rest, Dragonslayer. You need it.”

Bard fell asleep with his face tucked in the crook of the Elvenking’s neck, and Thranduil looked out over the balcony and watched the stars.

 


	3. sun

 

Bard woke slowly the next morning, feeling wonderfully warm and comfortable, blinking his eyes open with a good deal of effort. He thought he hadn’t had such a satisfying sleep in over a year, maybe more, and he hadn’t know how badly he’d needed it until just now. 

He quickly took stock of himself: his body and mind felt rested and clear, all of his aches - both those borne of battle and those he had carried before - were gone, and his bruises had faded still further. Surely it must be some work of Thranduil’s. Thranduil. His cheeks burned at the memory of last night and he broke in to a grin, but when he rolled over he found the other side of the spacious bed empty.

He propped himself on his elbows and looked up, out at the balcony, to find Thranduil standing still as a glass lake in a thin, simple silver robe, gazing over his forrest. He seemed a fantasy silhouetted against the rich morning sun, his hair shining a dazzling gold from the honey beams that streamed in around him and fell just at the foot of the bed. 

“Early riser?” Bard mumbled fondly through his haze of sleep, stretching to clear it away,marveling again at how wonderful he felt.

“I often watch the sunrise.” He could hear that little smile in Thranduil’s reply, though the Elvenking did not turn around. “For a partner in trade you know little of elves. We do not sleep nearly as much as men.”

“Well. It must be a long immortality indeed; I don’t think I envy you. Nothing better than a good night’s sleep,” Bard proclaimed, crossing his arms behind his head, laying back again. And then he realized - “But you did sleep with me. Last night. Didn’t you?” He thought he could remember waking briefly to curl in closer to Thranduil against the cold air that the fires in the room could not quite keep at bay.

There was a pause. Thranduil still did not turn, and his voice was tight when he answered. “I simply lay with you.”

“Lay with me?”

Another pause after which followed a cautious answer. “Yes.”

Bard supposed that Thranduil’s hours may seem shorter than his, but still, for quite a while as he slept - and by the sun Bard could tell he had slept rather late - Thranduil had stayed with him. Held him. It was a very intimate gesture. And yet the Elvenking seemed reluctant to acknowledge it. 

Bard was unsure what that meant, or what to say, and now the silence stretched.

Thranduil stood on his balcony and seemed far away and remote, as if, though forrest breeze and golden sun fell on him, he stood somewhere amid snow and icy gales.

“What’s troubling you?”

Thranduil looked back at him at last, as if surprised Bard should ask, or be able to perceive his discomfort. He did not offer an answer, and Bard gave a small smile.

“You fancy yourself unreadable, but you know, with enough study anyone can learn even the most difficult texts." 

Thranduil did not reply, though Bard had thought his comparison rather clever. He softened his voice. “Something’s on your mind, I can see that.”

“It is simply the loss of my people.”

A lie, they both knew. 

“Thranduil.” 

Thranduil looked at Bard, sitting there under his sheets, face open, concerned, accepting, who wanted his honesty, who thought it should be so easy.

He wished he could say the words. Tell Bard that it was not often anymore that he found himself becoming attached, but that he was. He was becoming attached and very much so. But opening himself to Bard meant opening himself to loss. There would always be that black river between them. Could he cross it? Did he dare?

Silence hung between them on gossamer threads.

And then Bard held out an open hand, and plainly he told Thranduil, “Come here.” 

Thranduil did.  

He padded slowly across the floor and he sat carefully on the edge of the bed, and just as carefully Bard reached out and took his hand and wove their fingers together. They didn’t need to say anything.

The sun had climbed even higher and the room was full of warm bright light. Thranduilmoved closer and pulled back the covers between them. Bard slipped the thin silver robe off of Thranduil’s shoulders, and they wrapped their arms around each other, and Thranduil sat in the lap of his Dragonslayer for a moment and let Bard hold him. And they simply looked at each other. A worn oak beam and a pale marble column. Sandstone and Ivory. Emerald and Diamond.

With a small smile Thranduil pushed a stray hair behind Bard’s ear, and very gently he leaned down and kissed the King of Dale, and accepted his fate. Flowers bloomed. Vines tangled. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> There is the possibility that the series may be added to in the future, though I'll make no guarantees at this point.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!! Feedback of any kind is always appreciated.


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